Shit I Wrote When I Was Drunk, Pt. 1

Between us and Them.

It starts with a flicker of emotion, a spark doused with the treacherous solace of good Mexican beer. It takes but a sip to rewind the embers into a profound blaze of doubt and meticulous scrutiny of faults at once both invisible yet achingly overt.

You may feel like there’s a joke going around. Smiling peach faces and round cream bottoms always out of grasp, taunting in their appropriate imperfection. They’ve got the punch line under wraps and it’ll take more than Markovik to charm those lips open.

Tragically, you will soon come to terms with the reality. You will never be a part of that circle, for you were destined to remain outside, looking in through the coffee shop window. You will never understand what makes them so special, or their shitty music so appealing. You don’t have the stage presence for it.

Give up. You’ll be happier that way.

Dedicated to bad music.

It ends with a question. "How could you hate someone so adorable?" You'd like to tell her that it's easy. All you'd need was love.

He performed under the name Sheepskin Bogonis, his persona a ragged beard and matching, scraggly voice oscillating between nervous melody and Muppetish growl. Grover crying over a chai latte while masturbating into his copy of Gravity's Rainbow. 

Occasionally the veneer breaks (or maybe it just continues, who am I to tell?). He lets out a woman's giggle and adjusts his carefully unwashed bob. He tosses out self-deprecation like candy or Amyl.

With music like that, songs written in the posthumous honor of a grandmother, he's sure to get plenty of adoring "ooh's" and "ahh's," not so dissimilar from a family reacting to a vomiting newborn. At most one of his fellow suburbanites will bed him out of a fiendish blend of pity and painful boredom. She won't think anything of it. He's as threatening as a kitten.